


The Box

by frodo_stole_my_ring



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Not really sure, bit of experimental really, philosophical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 17:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10518744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frodo_stole_my_ring/pseuds/frodo_stole_my_ring
Summary: She turns, and swirls, dancing and playing in the corridors and hallways. (She warms his hearts.)A series of short/long shots exploring different concepts, ideas, thoughts from the show.





	

There's a world within the box.

There's a room filled with crying people. There is no reason, no structure, no rhyme to their tears. A child sits in front an old man, young eyes stare. Dry, aged eyes wrinkle in confusion. In weary ears screams of the drowning sound monotonous. Dull.

The old man looks at the child. Soulful eyes stare back; they are doors. Expressions and behaviours are windows - the skull, hair, skin are thin walls. Sorrow can be heard through them. The minds scream and cry and thrash and throw up and shriek and yell at the unfairness of it all at life at the world at the universe, and the minds talk and bicker and fight and fall into deep, deep, deep deep deepdeepdeep holes. The minds drive and kill and hurt themselves and hurt others and laugh and jump off buildings and weep in anger and sleep and fall unconscious and they are just too overwhelmingly noisy sometimes. He is surprised the thin walls can cage them. 

The old man is ancient. Both in age, and in his perception of everything else. Weary and tired. There was a thing called “the soul” and a thing called “immortality”. For the old man these are like a thread, a seam, holding him together. And there are cold hands pulling the fabric apart again and again and again. Clawing at his very being. But really he is like a child and it's just his eyes that are ancient, weary and tired. The old, young man needs new eyes.

The old man needs new eyes, and they are sitting right in front of him. He steals those soulful eyes. He steals them away from the crying and screaming and talking, the useless noise, the meaninglessness. A child sits in front an old man. And he fills its eyes with wonder.

[ _ I grew up. _ ]

[  _ Don’t worry. I’ll soon fix that.  _ ]

“I’m in my nightie,” she said, but her thoughts sing  _ it’s bigger on the inside _ , childlike and awed and there are colours playing in her wide eyes. The orange glow of warmth and a home. The yellow of hope and joy, of overlooked corruption, cowardice. The blue of deep oceans, of future despair. The enticing green of his eyes reflected in hers. “You are so sure that I’m coming.”

“Why?” And the old man answered the child: The Scottish girl in the English village, the dry-eyes child sitting in a room filled with crying people. The child who wondered if the ball would float, when all the others said it would fall. The child who hadn’t yet gotten so used to life and existence, who hadn’t seen the ball fall hundreds of times. The child who doesn’t belong. (“I know how that feels.”)

[  _ There’s a world within the box. _ ]

The box is not a box. The box can be anything. In the end, though, it is merely a door. It is a doorway to a strange dimension, a new world. Ever-expanding. Changing,  growing. And she knows this. She's known this for almost the whole of her life. Since its first appearance in her backyard, in fact. Strangely, it doesn't scare her. (It should.)

She turns, and swirls, dancing and playing in the corridors and hallways. (Illuminated by the light of a dying sun stuck in eternity.) She runs up the stairs and through doors, heartbeat loud, happiness louder. (She warms his hearts, she breathes new life into his tired eyes.) Flowers from the gardens sit in flaming hair, and he shows her around. Behind every bend, every curve, hides a new door. There’s thousands and thousands of doors, maybe an infinity. Round the corner they find a cute one with wooden panes and lilies like in her hair. Behind the a staircase there’s one with frozen metal plates. In the middle of a wall there’s one with billowing curtains and nothing else. They catch a glimpse of a lush landscape. In the garden wall there’s a rusty gate. In the corridor walls, behind paintings and kitchen sinks there are gaps and cracks. He shows her the doors that don’t exist, the ones on the edge of reality, and the ones that only appear in the morning and at night. The ones only visible in the corner of the eye.

[  _ Goodbye.  _ ]

They are pulled along by every door. The child and the old, young man. The every door, there’s a door, there’s a door, there’s a door, a door, door, door, door, door. The child becomes accustomed to the infinity. She’s happy within the eternal box. Feeling at home, the box becomes an old friend. Never-ending corridors of doors, intricate architecture, hills and slopes. The child ponders. There is a room inside the box. No, that's not true – There's a life, an existence outside the reality of everybody else, a getaway, an escape, adventure, understanding, being seen, living. There’s doors upon doors upon doors and she does not remember through which she entered. There's a world within the box.

Maybe the box really just is the world? 

**Author's Note:**

> (And there are monsters in the world.)


End file.
